Anywhore, I am once again off to the sun-baked mosquito ridden land of the North. Yes, I'm speaking of Chinook, MT. Here, I will wake to the piercing wails of constantly passing trains. In the morning, I will wake to many a diesel engine or grumbling workers sharing the RV lot with me. This shall be a time for introspection. I will no longer cut my hair. I will read. I will dream that I have a life.
As winter approaches, I'll practice living like Chris McCandless in Into the Wild. A cold crappy camper on the windswept prarie. If one looks at it through slightly bloodshot eyes wearing fogged over glasses, one might think I am on an adventure. Be not mistaken, my friend, an adventure is coming soon. By the melting of the winter's icy robe, yours truly will be off to somewhere inspiring. I will once again breathe, laugh, and dance. By summer, my tan will have grown dark enough to confuse the tourists.
Ryan has a right shoe that no longer fits him. Apparently, his toes now stick out over the edge of the sandal. He has no explanation for this. Both sandals have seen some sun, rain, and general wear and tear. They have much wear on the traction surface. He is concerned, and has come to me for answers.
After much deliberation on the matter, I have come up with a list of ten possible solutions
1) Purchase some JB Weld. When applied to the affected area, magic will happen.
2) Wear high heels instead. You know you want to.
3) Purchase "Sandy Duncan's Sandal Repair Kit" on Ebay. The "Buy it now" price is $717.
4) Stick a ten penny nail through the heel. You'll forget about the other issues.
5) Take the sandal to a locksmith. Those guys are wizards.
6) Take the sandal to a wizard. Those guys are mystical.
7) Place sandal under lawn mower. No worrys!
Spread an even layer of raspberry jam across the face of the sandal. Do NOT use strawberry.
9) See step 7. Supplement bare toes in place of sandal.
10) Consult Diedrich Hauffman's Sandal Advisory Board. Based in Wisconsin, this Consultation Firm recognizes all shoe-related problems, big and small, and will officially laugh at you.
Anyone else with a pressing issue is free to post on the topic. I will advise on a first come basis.
Hello Little Ones!
Here is what my friend Dr. Scott E. Pants has been doing as of late:
Scotty went out to a Billings Dive Bar, got drunk, and re-invented himself for the evening.(advice he whole-heartedly took from a feeble-minded friend who had meant something entirely different.) The following is the tale of Dr. Pants, told, practically, in his own words...And I quote.
"I had just gotten off work and so I went downtown to have a few.So I went to the (Name witheld for embarrassment purposes) Bar and proceeded to just get absolutely shitcanned. This chick was singing karaoke and she had just did, I mean, a great job. Absoulutely nailed it! So when she was walking by, I was like, Man, you nailed that! She thanked me and asked if I would like to come join her at her table. Are you here alone?, she asked. I told her Yeah, I just moved up here from California, I'm a land developer and I'm looking at a number of properties in the area(lLie). She said cool and we had a bunch of drinks and then she wanted me to sing and I said I couldn't possibly...welll...ok and I went up and sang Pretty Woman and I just nailed it! When I was done, the DJ was like, wow, great job, you really nailed that one! And I said Well, I probably should...I AM Roy Orbison's Grandson(Big Fat Lie). So tehn the DJ got on the mike, and was like, Laidies and Gentlemen, can I have your attention, we sorta got a celebrity in the house tonight! Say hello to Roy Orbison's grandson! After that, I got free drinks."
(Sigh) I'm so proud of him.
DO NOT READ THIS POST IF YOU ARE EASILY OFFENDED BY WORDS, IMAGERY, OR PHRASES THAT ARE BY ANY AND EVERY SINGLE PERSON'S STANDARDS VULGAR AND OFFENSIVE.
I got a phone call today while I was busy working. "Hello?", I said. "May I speak to the business owner?", he said. "This is him.", I lied. "Sir, good morning! I am calling to tell you about an exclusive offer on our monogrammed pens with your company's...(interrupted) "No thank you and please remove me from your calling list.", I said.
Now, I SWEAR there was some sort of law in place to protect me from this call, but for whatever reason, it failed.
After hanging up, I quickly compiled an official LIST OF THINGS I WOULD HAVE LIKED TO HAVE SAID INSTEAD OF "NO THANK YOU AND PLEASE REMOVE ME FROM YOUR CALLING LIST."
You have been warned.
LIST OF THINGS I WOULD HAVE LIKED TO HAVE SAID INSTEAD OF "NO THANK YOU AND PLEASE REMOVE ME FROM YOUR CALLING LIST."
1) Sorry Sir, but I would rather bong John Wayne's diarrhea than buy your pens.
2) No offense Guy, but I would rather eat a salad bowl of kindergartener's boogers than listen to you another second. No offense.
3) Call me again, I kill your dog.
4) I would just as soon stick fishhooks into my eyelids and genitalia, tie them to a bridge, and jump than to have your stupid pens.
5) I screwed your mom.
6) Perhaps you could take one of those pens and shove it up your urethra.
7) Sir, your call is worse than licking a petri dish full of AIDS.
I hate you.
9) **No thank you, I already have monogrammed pens.
**answers marked with double asterisk were added later by the editor, and may not reflect the views or opinions of the author.
Well, I'm not moving to Florida. Instead, I will be moving to Bozeman, MT next week. I will be hinking Granite Peak (the tallest peak in Montana) in about two weeks. After hinking it, I shall also hike it. Ha Ha! I caught that spelling error! Q, And why not back up and retype it instead of explaining this to you? A. Too tired!
My good friend John (AKA The Homosexual Leprechan,AKA The Gay Gay Fag, AKA Chachie The Abandoned Rainbow Pony, AKA Aykay-Eh) is moving to Portland soon with his hot, hot Chewtoy For Life, Ingrid. It's about time, and good riddance.
Am I the only one left who knows the atomic weight of Cobalt?
I got a really bad headache today trying to figure out the meaning of life.
Who reads this crap?
and i'm spent
Freddy Steadfast was a ridiculously wealthy man. He owned a huge empty house, a huge array of cars, several airplanes, seven oil wells, a schooner, and so on. He had his work cut out for him simply talking on the phone to all of his company's employees daily that he rarely had time to enjoy his riches. At first glance, his pear-shaped body, severely balding head, and marshmallow skin gave the impression he had never worked a day in his life. But the truth was in his hands. The dark, weathered creases, scratches, and layers of exposed skin showed signs of years of hard manual labor.
You see, Freddy wasn't always rich. He had worked at the sugar beet processing plant for twenty-one years. He woke every morning at four AM, drank several stiff coffees, and would drive eighteen miles to work in his raggedy grey 1982 Saab 900. There he would spend eight hours checking loads of outgoing beets, inspecting by hand, shoveling, washing, and so on. His favorite part of the day was 11:30 when the general foreman would go on break and he would grease the zerts on the beet loading conveyor. It was then that he would take out his rusty Buck pocket knife, rubbing his fat thumb across the edge of the sharp blade as he cut away a meaty slice of the finest sugar beet he could find. At lunch time, he would stick another slice on his sandwich. It didn't matter if it was peanut butter, ham and cheese, or pickles with pot roast. He always added the sugar beet.
This was the beginning of his sugar addiction. In the years to come, Freddy would continue his daily ingestion of sugar beet, eventually capping his night off with a large slice of chocalate cake he would pick up at Stacey's Diner, three blocks away from his home. Later, he would begin each day with several cups of stiff coffee and two powdered doughnuts. At exactly 10:04 AM, he would have four sugar cookies. Sugar became his life.
It was no surprise to anyone when he walked into work on Thursday, June 23rd, twelnty-one years ago, ten minutes early for his shift and announced, "Fuck this place.", and walked out. In fact, people were surprised he didn't bring a gun. Everyone knew Freddy didn't like his job, and had become so obsessed with eating sugar that it was all he talked about. At the company picnic, he would be all alone at a picnic table because no one wanted to discuss pastry ingredients and raw sugar refinement anymore. But that didn't bother Freddy. He would just talk to himself.
Wiith no job, he would spend his entire day consuming sweets. All of them. It was merely coincidence that only three months passed by before Freddy came into money. The fat bastard won the Iowa Lottery. It was the state's biggest payout in history at the time, although the record has since been beaten. Still, $210 million after taxes is nothing to sneeze at. He went on ridiculously lavish vacations, pissing money all over the world. He bought all kinds of crazy extravagant things before he got serious with investing it. He would take huge risks on longshot companies, akin to betting at the horsetrack on the pony named Elmer.(destined to become glue if it didn't win) After some major failures he finally hit it BIG. He invested $76 million in a company called Fold-A-Vision, the makers of the world's only folding disposable cardboard binoculars. Thirty-eight months later, the stock skyrocketed. He was now ultra-rich.
Yes, Freddy was a wealthy man. But no amount of money could save him when the doctors at Johns-Hopkins diagnosed him with having a rare clot in his kidney caused from Glucosamine Ditrabianate, a common ingredient in simple sugar. He was dead two weeks later.
Take heed, my friends. Sugar kills. I don't do sweets, mama.
I'm not gonna post today. I'm just not going to. I don't care what you think of me. Never did. So what if you posted. I'm certainly not going to post just because you did. Who do you think you are? What gives you the right? If that's how you're gonna be, that's just fine. But I'm still not tip -toeing around the fact that I, personally, am not posting. See, here I am. Standing before you. Shouting it for all the world to hear: I'M NOT POSTING TODAY! I could say it in another language, if you like. Eitta Mine Fligourshin Lenta! But no matter what language, same thing. I simply refuse to post today. Nothing personal. Maybe I just don't feel like it. Maybe I'm sick. Maybe I just bumped into an elderly gentleman on a flight to Moab who said that his nephew had gotten a rare skin condition 14 minutes after he posted a picture of Kathy Ireland on his web journal, and that would certainly happen to me. Maybe I'm tired. Or too giddy to post. Did you ever think of that? You're just not getting it , are you? Maybe a song will help:
It's not the way I wanted it
Just white space, no noise, where everything has been before
You can tell me you're not having it
and maybe if you call again something will have given in
but today is not your day, not your day
I don't care how it's been before
Put some sunscreen on if you go out
Outside it's simply roasting
I can't tell you anymore it's over
Today I'm just not posting.
Hello, my porkchops!
So someone has decided to pay me money to put spikes on my feet and climb 100 foot trees with a chainsaw. That's my forte! Here is a conversation I had with a loser in the KOA camping park here in Billings while trimming a cottonwood the size of a house. Keep in mind that he is interrupting my work. He ambled over with his white wifebeater and smokes for this:
me: "Hi there."
loser: "Whatcha doin' to that tree?"
me: (pointing at power lines above) " Trimming it away from the power lines."
loser: "What kinda tree is that?"
me: "Cottonwood."
loser: "Well, how come you're cuttin' it?"
me: (pointing at power lines above) "Powerlines."
loser: "I cut down an aspen or ash in my front yard."
me: "Cool."
loser: "Are those the same tree?"
me: "huh?"
loser: "Aspen is an Ash right?"
me: "Actually, I'm just starting this job. I'm no tree expert or anything like that."
loser: "Well, Cottonwoods are not pine trees."
me: "Nope. They're not. Well, I..."
loser: "What's the weight on this bad boy?"
me: "I don't know. But I gotta get back to...."
loser: "Are Aspens the same as Ashes?"
me: "Yup. And this tree weighs 55 tons."
loser: "Oh, and...."
me: "You have a good one sir, I need to have you step back over there now."
I'm such an ass.
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